


Treatment

by GeekishChic



Series: Ficlets For Your Face [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, I Don't Even Know, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-19 10:37:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2385329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/pseuds/GeekishChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds a way to treat Sherlock's embarrassing condition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Treatment

 

 

 

"I swear to God, Sherlock," John was grumbling as usual as he scanned the fridge's contents to see where amongst the sheep's innards he could put the  _second carton of milk that day_  without contaminating it. "I'm going to get myself a separate refrigerator and keep it in my room. Locked. With a key code that changes once a week." He clicked the electric kettle back on, glad at least that at the last minute he'd thought to double check on the milk's viability, only to find it had been turned green with some sort of spore. Without blowing off steam by power walking to the nearest Tesco's, his mad scientist flatmate may have turned purple as the life was being strangled out of him. It was half four and he hadn't anything on, to his knowledge, so if he wanted to await his tea with a finger or three of whiskey, he'd no need to feel badly about it. He threw back the first one then poured another and went to the door of the kitchen to see if he could stare Sherlock into sitting upright or moving to his chair to think, rather than the community area of the sofa. John could watch telly more comfortably from there, not having to twist around in his own chair or have to sit in Sherlock's, which somehow just always felt wrong to him. That was Sherlock's Chair and it always irritated something in the back of his mind when anyone else sat in it. Which was weird. Because it wasn't his own chair.

 

Sherlock, as usual, lay pale and statuesque in Mind Palace roaming mode, palms pressed prayerfully together under his chin, dressing gown (the deep red one today) flared dramatically around him, the left corner of it hanging off the sofa. John only noticed the creamy patch of skin showing between Sherlock's slightly rucked up grey tee-shirt and the gathered waist band of his pyjama bottoms somehow managing to maintain it's low-slung appearance, because there was a sharp dark pink slash there where he'd been grazed by a wickedly bladed knife. He'd complained more about the shirt ruined in the process than the fact that if the knife had actually gone in, it would have to be left in, requiring surgery to extract it. But now it was healing nicely, another battle scar to add to the collection. 

 

At first he thought it was a trick of the shadows, an illusion put forth in the dying light of day. Sherlock had been like that most, if not all of the day. At least since John had left for his staggered half shift at the surgery at nine-thirty that morning. He couldn't have been comfortable. Especially with what seemed to be emerging as a.... spectacular hard on. John just blinked at it for a moment, tenting Sherlock's bottoms as if about to burst through the flies like one of those aliens creatures. 

 

John threw back his second glass and went to get another.

 

The water was boiling by this time and he went about doctoring up his tea instead of a third drink neat, grabbed a couple of those lovely chocolate covered biscuits and, after placing them on a small dish, took to his chair. If he was taking the time to rid the wafer part of the chocolate, or crunching extra loudly, then it was only because there was no other sound in the room but the crackling fire. He was just observing, he told himself. Observing what, he wasn't quite sure. He only knew that he'd never seen Sherlock in such a state before. Even Irene who, bitch as she was, would give his dead granddad a boner even now, didn't elicit more than an absent initiated touch which was more than he did with most. Well she and John were really the only ones and that gave him a tiny, ugly feeling somewhere in his chest that he didn't pay enough attention to in order to decipher. Finally, John had to ask. It had been twenty minutes and he'd only eaten those two biscuits since a hastily scarfed half of a sandwich between patients. He'd expected to be hungry when he got home, but he just wasn't. Not exactly. So, whilst waiting for it to be late enough to start dinner, he figured he'd amuse himself with his... experiment(?).

 

"Erm, Sherlock?"

 

"Mm?" 

 

"What're you thinking about?" It was a question that could elicit any number of reactions, from scorn to a lengthy explanation about something John had little idea about. John spun the wheel.

 

"You've eaten nothing since breakfast but a half of a ham and cheese on rye bread that you didn't even really enjoy, but you were late and didn't have time to take something from home. You didn't even have time to painstakingly choose a hideous jumper so you wore just that sky blue button up with your jacket over it until the heating kicked in at your office." Avoidance then. But not really. There was a clue to what he was actually thinking about within the seemingly dodgy response.

 

"You uh... okay?" Sherlock's singular eyes popped open then and flicked to John, brow furrowing in annoyance so that the three ridges that always appeared just above the bridge of his nose became prominent. 

 

"Of course I'm okay. Why wouldn't I be ok-oh for god's sakes!" He'd just caught where John's eyes kept roaming and sighed his  _Transports Are A Pain_  sigh, before sitting upright to lean his elbows on his knees. He glared at the traitorous limb then at John and pulled the union flag cushion over it. "This is your fault, you know." That made John sit up, suddenly feeling the full force of several servings of hard liquor on a rather empty stomach.

 

What could he possibly have done that would lead to such a... condition? He was completely taken aback and nearly didn't want to ask. Very nearly. But there was danger in the question, and here he was. "H-How is this my fault?"

 

"Because  _you_ , Doctor John Watson are a hypocrite." John's eyebrows shot up toward his hairline. There was always a chance of a combination of outcomes. This one seemed to be encompassing the John having little idea about the explanation part.

 

"I see... Alright... Mind explaining how?"

 

"You haven't eaten properly today despite your getting at me continuously about it." John searched the room for any sort of response or definition or anything that might help him understand what directly the fuck was happening.

 

"Right. Well, unfortunately, I can stand to miss a few meals. You, on the other hand, have put on a few pounds since we met but not as much as I'd like."

 

"Trying to fatten me up, are you? Just so you can feel better about gaining 'a few' yourself? I shouldn't have to pay the price for your low self-worth, John."

 

"I'm trying to get you to a healthier weight," John sighed, exasperated because now Sherlock was lashing out, which meant something more than he was just trying to be mean. Sherlock saying hateful things to John always meant there was a deeper issue. Sherlock went on as if he hadn't even said anything, which was par.

 

"Then you come home and distract me."

 

"With what? You didn't even move. Most of the time you don't even know I'm here, so don't give me that." John was trying his best to moderate his tone, because when Sherlock's frustration grew, he started abusing his raven curls, as he was doing now. Soon he would begin to pace and that would be a distraction in and of itself.

 

"With... making your after work tea."

 

"But I always make tea after work. That's why it's my _after work_ tea. And, I always have to dodge your experiments and such. What was so distracting about it this one time?"

 

"Biscuits!" Sherlock cried. John sighed and put his hand over his eyes, then sprawled back in his chair in order to try and get a grip on his own frustration. He hated to admit that the alcohol helped tremendously. He didn't imagine this conversation would have gone even this smoothly had he been completely sober. He finally lowered his hand but Sherlock was pacing, erection standing strong and bobbing with each step. John put his hand back over his eyes. "We never get the chocolate covered ones but, thanks to Mrs. Hudson 'buying an extra pack' we had them in." The disdain with which he delivered his words denoted he didn't actually believe that excuse even a little. Mrs. Hudson was always making too much or buying extra or any number of other things to be able to secretly feed 'the boys 'up.

 

"I'll be sure to thank her. But what does all of this have to do with...  _that_  being my fault?" He peeked through his fingers so he could wave a pointer finger in the correct general direction then again closed the gap.

 

"John, have you ever  _seen_  yourself eat those biscuits?" John dropped his hand to deliver the full power of his quizzical expression and immediately wished he hadn't. Sherlock was standing right in front of him, between his wide knees, erection shamelessly jutting toward him. Though still a few feet away, it was still daunting, and he still couldn't take his eyes off of it. He was aware of licking his lips as he often did, but hoped it wouldn't be taken the wrong way, especially after finding a stray shaving of chocolate he'd missed.

 

"I... don't exactly look in a mirror whilst eating so... no."

 

"It's  _obscene_!"

 

"Wh...what?"

 

"The way you soften the chocolate up by slowly moving it in and out of your mouth whilst suckling lightly. I know the exact moment it reaches the perfect temperature because you... you start humming." John was stunned for a moment, halfway to sitting upright but stopping at the last minute because of his proximity to a certain area of his best friend he was trying his level best to avoid touching.

 

"Humming?"

 

"Yes, humming! And the worst part, is the fact that you don't even know you're doing it. Then you apply more suction and, when the chocolate starts sliding off properly, you shut your eyes and bloody  _moan_."  

 

"I don't... do I actually...?"  Thankfully(?)Sherlock began pacing again and John stared thoughtfully into the fire. It was almost full dark and no one had turned on the lights as yet, so there was only the fire, casting Sherlock's pale skin in a golden glow, dancing in his eyes. "But you didn't  _see_  anything. You had your eyes closed and you were... like this... before I even started eating them."

 

"I know what you look like when you're eating them, John. My eyes don't have to be open."

 

"And does...," another dangerous question, " _this_... happen every time?"

 

"I cant even see an ad for those biscuits without _this_ happening almost instantly." Finally, Sherlock threw himself petulantly into his chair. "Most of the time I can just will it away, but this time, there seems to be a glitch of some sort." He glared down at it again. Then, to John's utter astonishment, he began lazily pushing at it with the tips of his long fingers, watching how it moved under the thin cotton material, bulging the vertical stripes of varying shades of blue. John knew for a fact he should definitely stop looking and forced himself to at least not engage in his lip-licking habit. It was a struggle but a step in the right direction. Sherlock stopped, then sighed and began thinking again, eyes closed, palms together.

 

"You could... try having a wank..." He licked his lips whilst in the relative safety of being on the other side of Sherlock's eye-lids, the other man's long, dark lashes casting alluring shadows on his cheeks.

 

"How would that help?" Sherlock asked sharply, eyes popping open and flashing in the firelight.

 

"Have you deleted masturbation too?"

 

"I haven't. It's rather unsatisfying. I've trained myself to celibacy in order to further The Work but my body remembers, that when it comes to sexual activity, it prefers at least one other party to be involved." Said so casually. As if John had any idea about Sherlock's sexual history. He didn't believe him to be a virgin by any means. The statistics of that were just too slim. Add his physicality to his drug addiction and the number of people that would be put off by his behaviour was negligible. John tried his best to get his face under control, as well as...  _Oh no_!

 

It had to have been the subject matter. John was as open-minded as the next bloke, not caring about the sexuality of others one way or another, secure enough in his own to be able to notice, without feeling guilty, attractive traits in other men as well as women. And there had been... games. John had been to many parties and, if it was a gay-friendly gathering, the inevitable straight women verses gay men blow job debate came up, complete with demonstrations and sometimes even  _lessons_. There were quiet fumbles in darkened tents or what passed for showers when in the middle of Nowhere, Afghanistan, and that one girl who'd introduced him to prostate stimulation during sex which he'd never ask for from future partners, but used sparingly on himself as a special treat, when he had time to make a wank session last. He adjusted his crotch when Sherlock closed his eyes again and crossed his legs.

 

Out of all of this utter absurdity, one thing nagged at him. 

 

"But they were still there when I got home."

 

"What?" Mercifully, Sherlock's eyes remained shut for the time being.

 

"You could've got rid of the biscuits if they affected you so negatively and, as you so graciously pointed out, don't really need. So why didn't you?" That look, that  _We both know what's really going on here_  look that would usually enrage John instantly, just made him sigh, signalling the end of his part of the conversation. In his mind, anyways. Besides, he needed to start dinner and, as far as he knew, Sherlock hadn't yet sabotaged the chicken breast. The sickly florescent light in the kitchen broke the spell a little, to John's relief, as he began extracting the meat, rice, and a bag of frozen veg marked with his name. To his credit, it appeared Sherlock had only extracted the carrots, leaving the broccoli, mushroom, and cauliflower. He remembered the experiment that had something to do with adding beta carotene to something or other and just fondly shook his head before nearly jumping out of his skin when he turned to Sherlock suddenly leaning against the kitchen door frame. See? Cat. "Yeah you probably shouldn't do that to a military veteran diagnosed with PTSD. I could have accidentally cut your throat." His long milky throat with its little constellations of moles. Sherlock flashed him a little smile that certainly didn't help, so John merely continued with the meal preparation, putting the chicken in to defrost in the microwave, replacing some sort of bowl of flesh he hoped was animal and finding the bag of wild rice Sherlock seemed to prefer.

 

"Do I... really weigh too little?" The question, despite the depth of the voice with which it was asked, sounded like a young boy, afraid of having disappointed. John got an almost overwhelming urge to put his arms around his flat mate and stroke his head. He gave his own head a little shake to clear it of that weird rogue thought and pulled out a pot to wash and fill with water so he could answer as casually as possible.

 

"Just a bit, but again it has to do purely with health. It would give you the best chance possible to fight off infection and heal properly when we go out together and have fun." He filled the pot more than necessary and looked at the fridge to hide his reddening face as he got through the next part of what he wanted to say to allay Sherlock's fears. "You were gorgeous when I first met you, you're gorgeous now, and you'll be gorgeous with a bit more weight on you." There. 

 

"I... don't actually think you're overweight, you know." There was his apology, and John smiled into the overfull pot as he ignited the burner beneath it, then thought again and quickly drained out some of the water.

 

"Let's call a spade a spade, shall we? I know I've put on a bit more than necessary. I'm not twenty-five anymore and therefore shouldn't eat like I am, yeah?" He got a small mixing bowl out and proceeded to wash it again as was his ritual when cooking with anything in the flat. He then eyeballed a measurement of rice as he poured it in, ready to be added to the pot when the water boiled.

 

"But you're perfect!" Sherlock blurted and, before John's eyes, turned a fetching shade of pink but forced his gaze to stay on John's.

 

"Thanks mate, but I think I'm beginning to be well past the time I could pull a model or an actor. My uniform probably doesn't even fit anymore."

 

"Stop being ridiculous."

 

"Ridiculous? Who would want a chubby, silver-haired, ex Army doctor with an adrenaline addiction?" John waited patiently, eyes wide, brows raised, whilst Sherlock's mouth opened and closed for a full count of five. "That's what I thought." He chuckled nervously, his own question beginning to haunt him, made immediately better by the fact that he didn't exactly think spending the rest of however many days he had left, by Sherlock's side was the worst way to go about things. Sherlock was moving around the kitchen table behind him and the sounds indicated he'd found the bottle and abandoned glass John had been using earlier. John listened to him pour himself a generous amount and knock it back before pouring more.

 

"Who would want an arsehole, ex-junkie whose only way to keep a job was to make one up?"

 

"Many would call that ingenuity."

 

"Most call it pathetic." John was immediately angry. Who the fuck would call what this genius detective did 'pathetic'? If Sherlock would point them out, they'd come down with a severe case of John's fist. He spun to face his friend.

 

"Who calls it that?"

 

"Calm down, John. You don't hit women."

 

"Sure I could figure something out. Besides you said 'most' so they can't all be women. I don't even think it's most, only those few squeaky wheels." Sherlock grinned around his sip and John turned back to his cutting board and onion. "Best go easy on that stuff, Sherlock. Tolerance for alcohol isn't the same as for cocaine."

 

"My tolerance is probably higher than yours."

 

"Doubt it, but I'm not about to prove it just now. I'm handling sharp objects."

 

"Also alcohol should handle my little... problem." John almost cut himself. The turn of the conversation made it so he wasn't even paying attention to the fact that Sherlock was still rather painfully erect. He dropped the knife next to the half diced onion and turned again to look back at his friend for a long moment. Sherlock simply looked back, sipping without taking his eyes off of John. 

 

"Right! Drink the rest of that and come on. Leave the glass." Before losing his nerve, John turned off the stove, grabbed the rest of the bottle and made his way to Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock followed with a curious,

 

"What- John?"

 

When Sherlock was fully in, John shut the door and took a long pull from the bottle, wincing only a little. The blood was rushing in his ears, the familiar pound of  _Danger Danger Danger_  coming from his chest. "No, shut the lights." Sherlock complied immediately, still completely oblivious to what was about to happen. The cold darkness of the room helped a lot. It was too early in the season for the building heating and there hadn't been a fire built, so the streetlamps filtering through filmy curtains were the only light and even that seemed to exist only as a mild contrast to the dark.

 

"It's cold in here," complained Sherlock half-heartedly, both of their breath visible. With another long drink, he handed the bottle back to Sherlock by way of grabbing for his hand and pushing it into it. 

 

"Good thing you have someone with and extra layer of fat to look after you." He heard Sherlock swallow, took it back for a last swig and then fumbled it onto the nearest nightstand before tugging on the hand he hadn't released.

 

"John, you're not-"

 

"Hush." Miracle of miracles, Sherlock did, as John found the only corner of his bedroom not occupied. It was a bit of a squeeze but Sherlock was lean enough to fit between his dresser and the wall when John gently pushed him back into the space. "Stay there," he commanded lightly, before retrieving a pillow off of Sherlock's bed and bringing it over to lay at the man's feet, long, narrow, and bare. John knelt on the pillow, trying not to note how long it took him to get down there and, without hesitation, undid Sherlock's button flies and pulled him out through the hole with a gasp of whose origin he wasn't sure. The rest of Sherlock's skin may have been cool to the touch but his cock was hot, almost scalding in comparison. 

 

The dark had a way of either repressing or promoting sound. It was easier to display your innermost thoughts in it, but it could also lower your voice, give you a place to hide. It reminded him of the old confessionals at church when he was a boy and he nearly giggled at the similar position for two very different acts. He supposed this was a confession of sorts. He'd wanted to do this for a long time, but the light made it seem impossible to admit. It was easier to think of it this way, because he would confess on his knees, receive absolution and, the next time they were in the light, it could be written off as never having happened or spark something further with fewer emotional consequences. That was the idea anyway. Thinking of it as a confession was giving them an out.

 

He hoped he still had it. 

 

John had never done this on a live bloke before, only on a piece of fruit or a bit of veg during one of those parties. He'd had it often done on him, flattered once by finding out secretly that some of his military comrades would actually play games to see who won the prize of getting to do it. He never let it go to his head, but it always gave him an extra confidence boost when he needed it.

 

He held on to the base, cool fabric warming under his touch but still not as hot as the straining member. This was to be done quickly. The whole point was release, relief. So, he recalled his lessons, discarding the surrounding chatter that he seemed born to it, and took the head into his mouth as far as he could for the moment. The groan it pulled from that long, white throat was worth every millisecond of contemplation. It obliterated any uncertainty. Out of habit, however, he hushed him, then proceeded to grab narrow, already thrusting hips and begin in earnest. He employed every trick in his arsenal from memory, swirling his tongue over the head and slit, the lightest grazing of teeth, putting a steadying forearm across Sherlock's abdomen so he could use his free hand to fondle Sherlock's bollocks. He made sure to produce a lot of saliva, Sherlock's nearly whispered groans and gasps encouraging him to go deeper, suck harder, repeat actions that garnered the strongest response.  

 

Using all of that extra saliva, John's index finger tip began a gentle circling of Sherlock's puckered hole. It took only a minute for him to slide a finger in far enough to find the little spot that made all pretense at quiet go out the window. Sherlock only had experience being quiet in certain situations and apparently having his dick sucked whilst his prostate was teased wasn't one of them. With a hissed curse and a bark of a moan, he spent himself down John's throat completely before sliding down the wall to a sitting position, apparently unsure of what to do with his hands. John sat back on his heels, reflexively swallowing only because it was easier clean up. He tasted salt, bitter, and musk. He couldn't say it was pleasant really, but it didn't matter. He'd helped his best friend in what was, in their traditional way, the craziest method possible and-

 

Just then, Sherlock figured out that the thing to do with his hands was roughly grab the front of John's shirt and pull him into a hard, sloppy kiss during which he repeated his name. John could only follow his lead, allowing a rather frantic Sherlock to suck what was sure to be marks into his neck and unbutton his shirt one handed. John started to ask himself what was even happening but gave up the thought when Sherlock's wicked tongue found his right nipple at the same exact time as his aching cock was suddenly bared to the cool air. John's brain shut off for a moment. By the time it came temporarily back on line, Sherlock had divested him of them completely and effectively shut it down again by burying John's cock to the short hairs in his mouth. 

 

The last thing he remembered during the act was the fact that the only time Sherlock was completely still, was when he'd carefully inched himself down onto John's cock until he sat flush. Their eyes, now adjusted to the dark, locked. Sherlock's expression seemed to be asking for permission, which would have seemed ridiculous if it was anyone else he was already buried deep inside of. With a little nod, Sherlock began trailing his fingertips over John's bared torso, paying attention to the nubs of his nipples, hardened from the activity as the cold had ceased to affect him at this point. After a few moments rest from the frantic movements of before, Sherlock began to move a little. By the time he was slamming himself down on John, Sherlock was already hard again. John, ever the giver, braced his feet flat on the floor and encouraged Sherlock by the hips to tip back just a bit. His reward a deep throaty moan containing his name that he would wank to the memory of for the rest of his life.

 

Sherlock was an animal.

 

He growled and barked and swore better than half John's unit in the Army. Way too quickly, John was already on the edge. He tried his best to make it last, employed the age old tricks of the trade that usually worked. But then, it seemed they only worked because there had never before been that voice and the feeling of this particular body enveloping him completely. He tried to tell Sherlock to slow down, that he didn't want this to end just yet, but Sherlock just made circles with his hips, bracing himself hard enough to leave little half-crescent fingernail marks on John's pectorals and locked eyes with him, begging him to come inside him In that voice that was sensuality itself. The only thing John could do was grab Sherlock's own leaking member and pray he could get him there in time.

 

It turned out even better than he'd hoped, Sherlock shouting his disbelief that he was coming a second time so quickly and spurting onto John's torso, the muscle contractions not so much pulling John over the edge with him but yanking him. John actually laughed as he fell, however, about how he made the mistake of thinking for one second that he could resist Sherlock a bit longer.

 

Sherlock collapsed on top of him, kissing him for all he was worth. John was already becoming sore, from the drag of the floor on his back to the overused muscles, he couldn't imagine what Sherlock must have been feeling. Somehow, though, the pain was actually a bit pleasurable. It reminded him of all that had just transpired, all that had the potential to do so. He began to panic a bit. This was Sherlock "Why Would She Still Be Sad About Her Dead Baby?" Holmes, he was talking about. What if Sherlock was some sort of Sex camel with an itch to be scratched every seven years or so? What if-?"

 

"I love you, John. Stop panicking so loud."  With a sweet kiss, Sherlock rolled off to John's right and lay there getting the last of his breathing under control. "John, I am sorry about driving you to drink."

 

"It wasn't really your fault." John turned his head to gaze fondly at his brand new lover, so relieved that he was still also his very best friend.

 

"You only drank because you were frustrated with me. You don't usually drink at home in the afternoons unless you're frustrated with me. I have to try harder not to do that because-" John kissed him silent, a soft hand laid on his sharp cheekbone.

 

"The fact that you tried at all is enough," John whispered, tracing a thumb over his plush bottom lip. Sherlock playfully caught the thumb between his teeth. "Oi!" It didn't actually hurt, but John was playing along.

 

"You know, John, I think I'm hungry now."

 

"You don't say."

 

"I  _do_  say," Sherlock retorted mirroring John's position on his side so he could put his arm around him and kiss his nose. "If we do this in some form whenever you want me to eat I believe I'll be fattened up in no time."

 

"At least three times a day should help me get rid of this spare tire."

 

"Don't you dare. I meant what I said before."

 

"Which thing?"

 

"You are perfect."

 

"Oh." John couldn't stop grinning, compounding his face muscles' pain on top of the rest of it.

 

"And I'll show you. But after a wash and dinner." John had somehow wrestled himself to an upright sitting position whilst Sherlock remained lounging. Like some great cat. After john creaked his way to his feet and stretched, he stood for a full minute watching Sherlock lay in the exact same position, marveling at how he could do that.

 

"And would his highness like me to drag the tub into the royal chambers or...?" The glare accompanying his attempt not to smile made John fall onto him again with kisses that would have led to more if other things didn't need so badly to be attended to.

 


End file.
